These Twisted Games We Play
by Zayz
Summary: T/Z, AU. The year is 1837. Anthony DiNozzo Jr. faces intense pressure from his namesake to marry a young, wealthy London woman, gain access to her fortune, and save him and his father from financial ruin. However, he gets more than he bargained for with Ziva and Talia David, the beautiful, spirited daughters of wealthy politician Eli David.
1. No 4 Upper Belgrave Street

A/N: It's not like I haven't written crazy things before for this fandom. (See: Bloodlust.) But still, putting Tony and Ziva in the Victorian Era never seemed like something within the realm of possibility, at least not with me at the helm. I have been nervous to embark upon such a crazy mission. And yet, over the past few months, the idea never really did go away – so I suppose indulging it was simply inevitable.

I don't entirely know how things are going to unfold, at this point. I don't know how long it will be. I don't know if I'll stick with it, because I've been known to lose interest in my own stories. But for now, it is here, and I am trying it out, and we'll see how this goes.

A note about the title—with this story still very much in its infancy, coming up with a title is hard. But I chose this one because this story will feature plenty of twisted games – scandals, fortune hunting, crossed wires, forbidden relationships, the whole shebang. So for now, it will do. But I may change it at a later time, as the story develops, if a better idea comes to mind.

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**These Twisted Games We Play  
By: Zayz**

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**Chapter I  
No. 4 Upper Belgrave Street**

* * *

It is with relief and enormous trepidation that Anthony DiNozzo Jr. steps out of the carriage, on the heels of his father and namesake, and gazes up at No. 8 Bedford Street, his fourth residence in two years.

The April morning is bright and cool; a biting wind blows by, and Tony shivers slightly in his suit coat, puts a hand to his hat to keep it from flying off. He surveys the street – the row of tall, neat white houses, all stacked in a line behind lawns just beginning to come into bloom, Bedford Square visible at the end of the road. This is by far Senior's prettiest choice of settlement, which immediately makes Tony suspicious.

This is a respectable house on a respectable street – with a respectable rent, no doubt. It is the sort of place that Senior has always dreamed of settling down comfortably in for the rest of his days. To be here now, when all previous conversation about real estate had indicated a move towards the East End, most likely suggests that this time, Senior is serious about forcing Junior to find a wealthy bride. He must do it, or the two face eviction, and yet another move.

Tony sighs at the thought, and re-adjusts his hat. He watches as Senior congenially finishes up his conversation with the driver, and discreetly hands over a generous tip that of course he cannot afford. Senior then pretends to be surprised and delighted when the grateful driver offers to unload the bags and bring them upstairs. When the driver is scurrying into No. 8 with two suitcases in hand, Senior winks at his son, beaming. He walks over and throws his arm around Tony's shoulder, obviously pleased with himself.

"Told you I'd found a good one," he remarks. "We should be happy here."

"Happy so long as your new landlord friend forgives our meager rent offerings," Tony mutters.

Yet Senior's mood is so buoyant, beholding No. 8 Bedford Street, that he merely chuckles. "Have some faith, Junior. Besides, I have the inkling that our worries may soon come to an end. The ladies in this part of town are rumored to be very beautiful."

He winks again, and Tony groans. His inkling had indeed been proven correct; beautiful and wealthy are synonymous terms in Senior's vocabulary, as adventures in other parts of England have clearly and starkly proven. As usual, it is up to Tony and his inherited DiNozzo charm to rescue the two of them from the brink of financial ruin.

Somehow, Tony forces a smile. "Yes, of course, father," he says, as the driver returns to the car and retrieves the last two suitcases. "I presume you have already made the necessary introductions?"

"All but one," says Senior. "We are visiting Mr. Eli David for tea at four."

"David. That is a Jewish name," remarks Tony. "And where, pray tell, does Mr. Eli David reside?"

"Number Four, Upper Belgrave Street," Senior proudly proclaims, a mad gleam in his vivid, clear eyes. "I am told that he has two marriageable daughters as well."

The driver returns from the house and briefly distracts Senior from his scheming, but Tony understands exactly what must be done. If he is being taken along for this introduction, then Senior has definitely set his sights on Mr. Eli David's daughters – may God have mercy on their souls.

Mr. Eli David, then, that Tony has to thank for this move to Bedford Street, he muses. He and Senior are aiming to impress him, and his Belgrave Street sensibilities. It is a bold move, especially in his current financial state – but if anyone is capable of engineering it and following through, it is Senior. In his immaculate coat, his brand-new hat, and his fashionable walking stick, Senior looks as pompous and wealthy as the rest of them; and with his easy manners, his sharp, edgy wit, he makes up for the financial truth when it is inevitably revealed. Admittedly, he plays the game better than its creators.

Senior has arranged for furniture to be brought up from their old residence later in the evening. For the time being, they go inside to unpack their bags, and prepare for tea with Mr. Eli David.

* * *

At four o'clock sharp, Senior's new driver friend halts the carriage in front of No. 4 Upper Belgrave Street.

Bedford Street, too, features neat white houses stacked in a ruthlessly straight line, the area is quiet, clean and exclusive, peppered with trees and maintained by immaculately-dressed people. It is elegant in an understated way; it exudes discreet grandeur, a casual affluence that other streets in London lack.

Tony and Senior are greeted at the door by a smartly-dressed butler, who had been expecting them. He shows the two into the house, and seats them in the parlor, where they are told that Mr. David will join them shortly.

Mr. Eli David is evidently a man of good taste and comfortable income. The fireplace is large and imposing, already lit with a small, cheerful fire. The rug is rich and intricately decorated; it was most likely made in India, or elsewhere in the Orient. The piano in the corner is large and imposing, perfectly polished, with perfect ivory keys. The furniture is intricately detailed and made of a dark, handsome oak. Fine porcelain vases adorn the tables, some of them occupied by freshly-picked, carefully arranged flowers, pink and yellow and white. The heavy maroon curtains are pulled back to reveal the quiet street, and daylight streams in, casting a honey glow upon the room.

Senior and Tony wait for several silent, heavy minutes – until, presently, Mr. David enters the room in his pristine suit, cut in the same modern style as Senior's. Tony and Senior stand up immediately to greet Mr. David, but he genially waves his hand and gestures for them to sit.

"Mr. DiNozzo – it is a pleasure," says Mr. David, smiling at the two of them.

"The pleasure is all ours," Senior assures him, nodding his head graciously. "May I introduce my son, Mr. Anthony DiNozzo Junior?"

This is his cue. Tony puts on his most dazzling smile, and stood up to shake Mr. David's hand. His grip is firm, matching Tony's. "A pleasure," Mr. David repeats.

The conversation flows predictably from there – where they have moved (Senior gives the address with flourish), how long they have been there (not long, Senior says, failing to mention that his definition of "not long" is merely six hours), and who else they have met in the neighborhood (at which point Senior shamelessly name-drops every influential London resident he can think of). Tony's attention drifts, sometimes trying to mentally calculate how much it cost to furnish this parlor, sometimes trying to count the threads on the end of the rug beneath his feet. He has, by now, perfected the art of disguising his glazed eyes with a look of polite interest; the talent is a necessity, when Senior's main occupation besides his textile business is flattering the upper echelons of every society he inhabits.

After a half hour of dull discussion, the entrance of a young woman into the parlor mercifully interrupts the proceedings – she comes in like a hurricane, apparently unconcerned about the fact that there is company in the house, and she announces, "Father, Ziva and I are going to call on Abigail tonight for dinner, and we simply must have the carriage for it."

Eli David's expression – before, pleasant and courteous – freezes upon sight of the young woman, tension evident in his tightly closed jaw. The woman is confused at first, then notices Tony and Senior sitting across from her father. She beams radiantly at them, and offers a curtsey. "Good afternoon," she says, batting her eyelashes at them.

"May I present to you my youngest daughter, Talia," Eli manages.

Senior and Tony rise to their feet and nod politely towards her. Talia smiles prettily, her eyes bright with mischief and excitement. She is young, no older than eighteen, and she is wearing a canary-yellow floral gown, with long sleeves, a high neck, and a full skirt. Her figure is small and slim, with delicate shoulders and a tiny waist. Her complexion is a light caramel color beneath a thick layer of white powder, and she has a sweet, heart-shaped face, surrounded by a cascade of rich brown curls. There is great energy and cheekiness about her, as she stands in the entrance of the room, reveling in the awkward silence she has inspired.

He waits a beat, then Eli asks, "Where is Ziva?"

"I am here," a voice answers from down the hall. Another woman joins Talia in the entrance and puts her hand on Talia's shoulder. This woman is a little older, perhaps twenty, with the same complexion and brown curls. She wears a blue dress in the same style as Talia's, but hers is cut lower in the neck, and she wears pearls in her ears. Where Talia is so obviously youthful and spirited, this woman has a more careful, refined air about her; her smile is tighter as she surveys the room, as though she is silently apologizing for the vigor of the younger girl.

"May I also introduce to you my older daughter, Ziva," says Eli, relaxing slightly as he beholds her calm hand on Talia's shoulder.

Senior and Tony nod politely at her as well, and Ziva offers a curtsey – lower and more sustained than Talia's.

"We apologize for the intrusion," says Ziva, smiling sweetly. She moves her hand from Talia's shoulder to the small of her back, and gently pushes her sister out of the parlor, taking care to close the door behind them.

"I, too, must apologize for my daughters," says Eli, strained.

But Senior only chuckles and says, "Not at all, not at all. Such beautiful women are always a welcome interruption."

And indeed, they were. Tony has seen many sophisticated, well-dressed society women, yet none have so instantly captured his attention the way these two have – Talia, with her cheeky grin and blatant disregard for propriety, and Ziva, beautiful and careful, somehow enigmatic. Her manners were the manners of any wealthy young woman, yet her swift handling of her sister and her long curtsey, suggest that Ziva, too, has considerable spirit beneath her elegant exterior. Though she was apologetic on behalf of Talia, she did not fear the parlor, its guests, or her father's reaction. She handled the situation the way the mistress of the house would – decisively, politely, but firmly – despite her limited years. And she is the more beautiful of the two, with her round face and large, lovely brown eyes; she is exotic in a way that London women simply are not.

If Senior has his way, Tony will most likely marry one of the two women within six months time.

For the rest of their visit, Tony busies himself with his tea and his thoughts about the two David sisters, wondering which of them he will have to make his bride.

* * *

Night has fallen by the time Senior has his driver friend take the two Anthony DiNozzos back to Bedford Street. Tony is grateful for it; the counting of the stars is an excellent distraction, as Senior begins his ramble about the benefits and drawbacks of the David sisters, despite having met them for no more than two minutes.

When the pair reach Bedford Street, Tony tunes into his father's monologue long enough to discern that either sister is a worthy bride – or, rather, a worthy conduit to her father's money – but he, Senior, would prefer if Tony married the older one. Ziva. She, at least, seems to have some sense of decorum. She would know better than to barge into the parlor during a house call.

Tony merely sighs, bids his father good-night, and retires to his room for the night. As he blows out the candle and settles in beneath the sheets, he is already sorry for the David sisters, and the father-in-law they might soon receive. He is sorry, because already, he has the inkling that he will genuinely like them – because such pretty, lively creatures deserve better than fortune-hunters like the DiNozzos.

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A/N: Any and all feedback is enormously appreciated.


	2. First Impressions

A/N: Guys. Guys. You are the greatest. Seriously. I had every doubt in the universe about this story – I didn't even commit the first chapter to page until prompted by my girl Jae having a bad day – so to know that you guys are excited for this means the earth to me. And to my muse, who loves reviews like I love chocolate cake. (For the record, I looooove chocolate cake.)

A couple of you expressed concerns about a Tali/Tony/Ziva love triangle, and about how you wanted it to stay T/Z. Well…I'm sorry to have to say this, but a love triangle is pretty much the only thing that makes sense here, with the way these people and their circumstances are. But, that said, I am going to try to do it in a way that is – hopefully – interesting and logical. This story is, after all, endgame T/Z.

Still, that's some time away at this point, so let's just continue onward. Hope you guys like this!

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**Chapter II  
First Impressions**

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Tali waits until she and Ziva have arrived safely at their friend Abby's house before she explodes into giggles and rehashes the afternoon's house call.

She did indeed manage to get the carriage – she called it while the DiNozzos were saying goodbye – and she and Ziva simply arrived early to Abby's, where she and Mr. Gibbs were finishing up their tea.

"Dinner isn't for hours yet," says Abby, delighted but puzzled as she opens the door to the two women. She is still wearing her day dress, a soft floral pink, her black curls soft and un-styled down her shoulders.

"We had news!" Tali gushes, eyes twinkling. "Besides, Father is currently displeased with me, as ever, and I came to the conclusion that getting out of his way a bit earlier than expected would, in all likelihood, be better for all of us."

"Sounds like a good story," says Abby, kissing each of Tali's cheeks, then each of Ziva's. "Come in. Have you had tea?"

"We have not," answers Ziva, "and Tali is the one to thank for that."

The three of them enter the drawing room, where Mr. Gibbs is relaxing on one of the sofas, drinking his tea. When he sees Ziva and Tali, his severe features relax into a smile, and he rises to greet them. Proper etiquette – formal nods and curtseys – have long been done away with in this house, which has been a second home to Ziva and Tali, but Mr. Gibbs always insists upon gently kissing both of their hands, and offering them whatever is on the table without ceremony.

"Good evening," he says, as they seat themselves on the opposite sofa. "To what do I owe this early pleasure?"

"We had a visitor today, Mr. Gibbs," Tali explains mischievously. "Actually, we had two! They must have been awfully important, since Father took them into the parlor rather than the drawing room."

"Tali, of course, did not bother to remember the appointment and entered the parlor without knocking in order to ask for the carriage," says Ziva, rolling her eyes. "Father was most unhappy about it."

"Who were the visitors?" asks Abby with interest.

"I heard the name DiNozzo," says Tali. "Both Anthony, I think." She chuckles heartily. "I believe Father is on a husband hunt for me."

"Are you certain?" asks Ziva.

"It is the only theory that makes sense." Tali shrugs. "You are already engaged to Mr. Rivkin—"

"That is not official yet," Ziva cuts in with a blush.

"—and I am young, wealthy and marriageable," Tali continues without pause. "Besides, why else would they be in the parlor?"

"Are they new in town?" inquires Mr. Gibbs.

"Since I have not yet heard the name, I believe they are," says Ziva. "But it is no matter. If Father is indeed considering the younger DiNozzo as a husband for Tali, we shall be seeing a lot of them, and we will get to know all about them soon enough."

"Was he handsome?" Abby grins, leaning forward slightly, clearly itching for details.

"Ooh, yes!" Tali answers at once. "Tall, and with a lovely smile. His waistcoat was especially well-tailored. I bet they come from money."

"Of course they come from money, why else would they be entertained in our parlor?" Ziva sighs. "He is…acceptable, I think. Obviously, I did not meet him properly, but there was…something about him. I do not quite trust the pair of them."

"All this on a first impression?" teases Mr. Gibbs. "When Tali entered the parlor without permission?"

"You know how my instincts are," Ziva insists, though she is smiling. "I just have a feeling."

"We ought to take you to see a psychic, with these instincts of yours," says Tali, rolling her eyes. "Abby, he is divine. I should be quite satisfied if Father chooses him as my husband!"

"Then you are too easily satisfied," says Ziva. "Wait until you have had half a conversation with him before you come to such hasty conclusions."

Tali merely beams. It is clear that she is dismissive of her older sister's advice; she continues chatting merrily to Abby about the DiNozzos, and her potential future father-in-law. But Ziva is serious about her misgivings. Long ago, Eli David had taught his daughters to read people swiftly and carefully, and be wary. As a young woman of wealth in London, Ziva knew was in a vulnerable position with gold-loving so-called gentlemen, and she had to be on her guard. She was the good daughter, the one who took her father's lessons to heart – the one who instinctively noted a charming manner and an easy smile with great suspicion.

Tali, of course, pays no mind to such trivialities. Tali fears nothing at all; sometimes Ziva wonders if she was simply born without the ability. Tali is the woman who danced every dance at every ball during last year's season; Tali is the woman who sees no wrong in conversing loudly and excitedly with men as well as women at social gatherings; Tali is the woman who was so genuinely confused to learn, as a child, that her male acquaintances were never to get too close to her, lest they take advantage of her.

Ziva remembers even then, when she and their governess at the time sat Tali down to explain the world to her: Tali was baffled to discover that not everybody had her best interest at heart. She is still, to some extent, baffled. She prefers not to consider it. She is easily excitable and far too trusting, leaving it to her older sister to throw out the rotten apples for her behind the scenes.

Mr. Gibbs catches Ziva's eye, as she is lost in these thoughts, and she knows that he understands. Mr. Gibbs has been in their lives since the two were born; retired military, an old friend of her father's, he was an ever-present force in their home. He doted on them like an uncle, or even a father – certainly more than their father did – bringing small treats for them, games and candies for Tali, books and chocolates for Ziva.

Mr. Gibbs knows better than anyone, the complicated history of the David family. He understands her caution, and Tali's carelessness. He gives Ziva a small nod, as Tali continues to babble about the DiNozzos. It says, _you are not alone in this_. He will watch out for them both.

Ziva is grateful, so grateful, that the sisters can be so free here. Abby, too, has been a friend since childhood. Her parents, before their untimely death, were also friends of Eli's. With them gone, and Mr. Gibbs left as her guardian, and Eli always absent for work or yet another social engagement, Mr. Gibbs and Abby and Tali and Ziva have, over the years, made their own little family unit.

On nights like these, when there is news to share and Eli has proven an unworthy companion, Ziva and Tali gather here and share a meal together, and candidly discuss the events of the day – honest and natural, with no formality. It's nice, Ziva muses, to be able to put her elbows on the table and laugh as loudly as she pleases, and reach her arms across the table for the mutton if that's the dish she wants. Mr. Gibbs only has one servant, and even he does little to earn his pay; Mr. Gibbs keeps him on, because he needs the job, but prefers to do most of his own work. The servant never joins them in the dining room to pass dishes and silently watch the progress of the meal. It's a relief, not to have anyone watching.

The four of them are alone together, during dinner and then after, burning the lamp oil late into the night, drinking warm cocoa and talking, talking. Ziva lets herself relax, forget about Anthony DiNozzo and his potential marriageability, and enjoy everybody's company.

* * *

They return late from Abby's – but since it _was _at Abby's, Eli is not too concerned. He is sitting in the drawing room with a cup of tea, a newspaper, and a stack of papers. Ziva makes a point of knocking on the door before they enter, and the two curtsey prettily to their father, all smiles after the afternoon's incident. To Ziva's relief, Eli smiles warmly back at them, gestures for them to sit.

"I hope you gave Mr. Gibbs and Abigail my best regards?"

"Yes, of course," says Ziva, because that is what she is supposed to say. "They, too, wish you well."

"You have eaten enough? Shall I send down for something?"

Tali looks like she is about to say something; at once, Ziva answers for her, "Thank you, Father, but it will not be necessary."

Eli doesn't even notice Tali deflate silently beside her sister. "Very well," he says. "Then you ought to go straight up to bed, girls. We have a lunch engagement tomorrow."

The girls nod dutifully, and retire to their separate rooms. Ziva's maid, Elizabeth, carefully removes her dress and wrestles her out of the corset. This is Ziva's favorite part of the day – getting out of the corset. After the entire day of holding in her breath, trying to ignore the suffocating tightness constricting her midsection, being so careful to stand and sit slowly so as not to disturb the wretched thing, she is suddenly free. Her muscles ache, and her bones still feel as though they have been manhandled around her soft tissue, but she does her little victory dance once Elizabeth has left the room, and she jumps into her bed with flourish, relishing the easy movement.

The candelabrum on her bedside table is well-lit and welcoming, the golden light flickering energetically in the dark. Ziva settles in with a book – English poetry – and only gets through a few pages, before her door creaks open. Ziva jumps violently and almost sets fire to the room by dropping her book onto the candelabrum – but it's only Tali, wearing her pink nightgown, holding a cup of milk.

"Tali! Why are you incapable of knocking today?" demands Ziva, sitting upright and setting her book aside, safely away from the candles.

"Sorry," she says, though she doesn't sound particularly apologetic.

"Can't sleep?"

"No." Tali sighs. "I saw Elizabeth leave your room, so I asked her to get me some warm mlik, but…no, I cannot sleep."

Though Tali is eighteen years old, a fully grown woman, sometimes she looks so much younger than she really is. She hovers in the door frame, the soft pink of her nightgown almost glowing in the limited light, her eyes wide and hesitant and lovely, a startlingly rich chocolate brown reflecting off the candlelight. Her hair has obviously been brushed out with care and patience by her maid, Harriet, but already, as she runs her fingers through her hair, Ziva sees the curls beginning to reform, as restless and irrepressible as the woman on whose scalp they rest. Tali's hair has done that since she was an infant. In so many ways, Tali is still a child – and here she is, perhaps in talks for a husband.

Ziva smiles at her sister, and pats the empty side of her mattress. "Come. Sit."

Tali grins, and at once settles into the covers beside Ziva. She takes a sip of milk, then offers it to her sister. Ziva shakes her head, and asks her, "Is there anything on your mind?"

She takes another sip of milk and considers. "I mean…I suppose seeing the DiNozzos in our living room today reminded me that I really do have to get married."

Something troubled passes over Tali's features like a shadow. She bites her lip, then looks Ziva straight in the eye. "I'm still serious about what I said last year, you know. About not wanting this. Any of this."

"I know, _tateleh_." Ziva gently strokes her sister's hopelessly curly hair. Curls are in style these days, but only a certain kind of curl – only the elaborate, carefully set curls that look like they belong on dolls rather than women – and Tali's hair is too wild to be fashionable. "I remember what you said."

"It's just so…unfair," she whispers, like it's a dangerous swearword. "I don't want to be a boring baby-making factory. I want to go to school. Write. Work. Do something interesting."

Still, such a child. This conversation has come up so many times – yet Tali remains desperately irritated, and Ziva's heart keeps finding new ways to shatter, seeing her sister's raw frustration. She understands Tali's dreams; once, they were her own. That makes all of this even harder.

Ziva puts her hand on Tali's shoulder, and says, "Now you listen to me, all right? Are you listening?"

Tali's eyes are shiny with tears, and her delicate little shoulders quiver slightly with passion beneath Ziva's palm, but she nods. "I am listening."

"This does not have to be the end of your life," says Ziva. "A husband…in many ways, he is as much a means to your end, as you are to him. He gets your money, but you get some independence, a tiny bit of freedom. More than you would have otherwise. So long as you choose one that is not too…spirited…you will not be miserable."

"It's not enough," Tali insists.

"But it is all you have."

"It's not fair," she repeats.

"I know. I know." Ziva resumes stroking Tali's hair. "But it is not confirmed yet that Father even likes DiNozzo. They were only meeting today. He will not give you away to someone he does not have full confidence in."

Tali is still not convinced, but she offers her sister a watery smile. "I hope it is not time yet."

"Why not? Maybe you will find an American, one who will take you across the ocean with him. Maybe you will find something there that you cannot find here."

"I could never leave you," Tali vows.

But Ziva only chuckles gently. "Do not be foolish. I fully expect you to leave me, if you have an opportunity to find your life, Tali."

She shakes her head. "I will not go to America unless you go with me."

"Then we shall see," says Ziva. "Drink your milk and go to bed. And do not worry about such things until there is reason to worry." And, on a sudden inspiration- "Here, take this too," says Ziva, handing Tali the book of poetry she had been reading. "Read pretty words. Have pretty dreams."

Tali's smile is her own again, full and sweet. She gives Ziva a kiss on the cheek; her lips are so soft, and she smells like childhood, vanilla and powder and milk. She whispers in her sister's ear, her breath hot against her skin, "Good night, Ziva."

"Good night," Ziva calls back, but Tali has already tip-toed out the door on little rabbit feet, light and swift on the quiet wooden floors.

* * *

A/N: As usual, let me know any comments/questions/concerns in the review box.


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